One thing nice about this neighborhood was that the cops would get nothing from any witness. No cooperation whatsoever. Zeller could have killed the man out in the street, and Dart and company would not get so much as a description.
Surveillance here had been difficult. Zeller had patrolled the area only three times and decided it was too tough a neighborhood to park his car and effect a stakeout. He did know that Greenwood had no phone, no credit cards, no current girlfriend. The black man had held a variety of jobs over the last six months, including a position at the Murphy Road Post Office. He had either quit or been fired, always because of drugs and alcohol. Four months earlier, his driver’s license had been reinstated after a six-week stint with a city-provided twelve-step rehabilitation program. There was no car registered in his name, although as of a week ago, he drove an eight-hour shift for Yellow Cab. The shift ended at four in the afternoon.
It was five-fifteen.
Sparco reached the scarred wooden door and knocked sharply. The drawn shade parted slightly and Sparco saw an eyeball peering back out at him.
“I’m working with the clinical trial,” Zeller said in his best Wallace Sparco voice-a little lower than his own. “We have a change in your medication. Open the door please, Mr. Greenwood.”
He waited through the metallic sound of four locks being disengaged, and the abrasive rubbing of the door on the jamb as it came open. His hands felt damp and uncomfortable inside the leather gloves, but he accepted their necessity.
“How are you doing?” Zeller asked, stepping inside, tapping the toe of his right shoe in an absentminded nervous gesture. It all had to go perfectly to pull off Greenwood the way Zeller wanted it.
“Okay, I guess.”
The black man was in his early thirties, his skin more cream than charcoal. He had a wide, flat nose and thick lips that parted slightly to reveal a chipped front tooth. Mildly handsome, his face knew no smile, and the hard, distrustful eyes knew no friends.
The studio apartment was dingy, dark, and smelled of cigarette smoke and bitter coffee. A worse-for-wear color television glowed blue from the corner-a cop show rerun. The countertop of the pullman kitchen held empty bags from fast-food chains. The furniture consisted of a ratty twin bed, a single straight-back chair, and a milk crate used as a footrest in front of a red vinyl overstuffed chair that had seen better days. Sparco saw no reading material whatsoever. A pelt of dirty clothes hung from a hook by the bathroom. The apartment’s only two windows had been boarded over with irregular sheets of dirty plywood recovered from construction sites, pieced together poorly with screws, nails, and duct tape. It was worse than any prison cell Zeller had ever seen. For Dennis Greenwood, this was home.
Sparco, his shoulders slouching, set down the duffel bag, which occupied Greenwood’s attention and drove a look of suspicion into the man’s hard eyes. His brow furrowed and his jaw muscles flexed tight as chestnuts.
“I need to ask you some questions about how things are going,” Sparco said. “Maybe take some blood.”
“I just had my tests,” he complained.
Sparco stepped closer to his victim and said in a warm, friendly voice, “Hey, I’m just following orders, you got to understand.” He met eyes with the man and then delivered the blow as a sharpened spear-a single devastating thrust of his right fist into the exact center of the man’s chest.
Greenwood’s body seized. His knees gave out. He tried to breathe, but the blow to the solar plexus had been perfectly delivered and the effect was immediate-his nervous system stunned numb and useless.
Sparco spun him around in an instant, sagged along with him, supporting him as they sank down to a kneeling position and then slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, locking his arms behind his back. He then forced the man’s flapping chin up, sealing his mouth closed, both covering the man’s lips and pinching his nose. With his right hand Sparco awkwardly fished out a small plastic bag filled with cocaine-annoyed by the need for the glove-and bringing the bag to his teeth, tore a corner off it.
Greenwood’s breathing would return before the use of his limbs-the body’s first reaction was for survival. Wallace Sparco waited, his left hand muzzling the man’s air supply. The chest began to heave, straining for air; Sparco reinforced his grip. Greenwood blinked repeatedly, reminding Zeller of a bird. He choked him down hard, pinching his nose and denying him air. Greenwood’s body recovered quickly, and he began to struggle, rocking his head, pushing back with his legs, desperate to breathe.
Sparco, still cupping the man’s mouth, raised the bag of coke to the man’s nose and inverted it at the same time that he released his finger pinch. In one enormous breath, Greenwood sucked in the contents-a gram of cocaine. As the white powder spilled over his upper lip he looked as if he had dipped his face in baking flour. His eyes went wild and wide as the coke froze his lungs and rushed to his head. He tried to scream but, still muzzled, managed only a whimper.
Sparco hooked his elbow around his victim’s windpipe in a practiced choke hold, took his own right wrist in his left, and applied a constant steady pressure like a vise, being careful not to bruise. Three years earlier the Hartford police had been taught this defensive move, and then, a few months later, refused to use it after three suspects had died of crushed windpipes.
“This is for Melanie,” Zeller, not Sparco, whispered hotly into the man’s ear. Melanie, eleven years old, fondled, raped, and sodomized over a seven-month period by this bastard. At Greenwood’s trial he had testified that he had gotten her high on coke before “doing” her. Melanie, for whom Greenwood had wept while on the stand, a performance that bought him thirty days in jail and a two-year probation from a judge with a known drinking problem. The system.
Dennis Greenwood passed into the semiconscious state that Zeller intended-an oxygen-deprived narcosis, neither awake nor fully unconscious.
Sparco moved smoothly; his actions had been choreographed and the routine rehearsed. He dragged the body over to and into the red, overstuffed chair facing the television, went over to the sink and poured a glass of water, and returned to the body. He opened his safari jacket and, without looking, removed the unlabeled brown prescription bottle with the tamper-proof cap. He primed the pump first, tilting the man’s head back and pouring a tiny amount of water down his throat. Greenwood coughed violently, spraying the water. Sparco tried again, this time massaging the man’s throat, and the water went down. He then emptied all twenty-seven of the ten-milligram Valiums into Greenwood’s mouth, and chased them with a mouthful of water. Greenwood swallowed repeatedly, the visible pulse beneath the skin of his neck revealing the effects of the cocaine on his heart.
Zeller cleaned up the man’s chin with Wallace Sparco’s light blue handkerchief, as attentive as a mother with her newborn, and then studied the room carefully.
He found a small plate by the sink. He set it down by the unconscious victim and tapped the coke bag until a dusting fell there. Then, in what he considered a brilliant touch, holding it by the edge, he used Greenwood’s laminated driver’s license to move this dusting of cocaine around on the plate and then left the license in plain sight sitting there.
From his fishing vest he removed the short length of a plastic drinking straw that he had prepared in advance-it already had traces of cocaine up inside it. He pushed the body around, accessing the man’s handcuffed hands, and pinched the straw with Greenwood’s fingers so that it retained his latent prints, and then placed the straw on the plate.
He put the man’s prints onto the prescription vial as well and dropped it into the chair alongside the victim’s leg, its plastic lid left by the plate.
Walter Zeller had attended dozens of similar crime scenes. Wallace Sparco studied it carefully to make sure it added up. He liked it-it looked good.
The duffel bag housed the cordless Dust-buster. Sparco ran the device over the floor where the cocaine had fallen as a snowy dust, lifting every last grain. He then vacuumed the entire area between the apart
ment’s door and the kitchen sink-the area in which he had walked. Putting the vacuum away he turned once again to his fishing vest, this time carefully examining its contents. He selected three vials, popping one lid at a time, and carefully sprinkling a tiny amount of household dust, then a pinch of cotton and synthetic fibers, and finally a trace of cigarette ash-a recipe for Teddy Bragg’s aardvark to find.
Greenwood twitched awkwardly and unexpectedly, and Zeller wondered if the blood vessels in his head had exploded and killed him before the Valium was given a chance. He hoped not. Wallace Sparco paid it no mind. His work was completed: If he wasn’t dead already, Greenwood would suffer an irreversible coma within the hour, death within three.
Sparco removed the handcuffs and checked to make sure there was no bruising from them. He walked gingerly to the door. The locks were the variety that offered a spring-loaded tongue meeting a steel housing screwed into the jamb. A knob could be twisted and a toggle thrown to set the lock open or allow it to close. Sparco threw the toggle on all three, releasing their metal tongues. The fourth lock was a deadbolt mounted inside the door. There was little Sparco could do about that. He pulled the door shut firmly, setting in place three of the four locks. When, in twenty to forty hours, the body’s decomposition announced itself to neighbors, the police would have to kick the door, splintering and destroying the jamb, perhaps covering up that the dead bolt had not been used.
It was dark out, and bitterly cold, and Wallace Sparco felt the heart of Walter Zeller beating strongly in his chest, as if it were he who had been drugged. He felt none of the remorse that he understood any sane man would feel but stopped short of judging himself insane. Conversely, he took no vain pride in his work-it was something that had to be done, that was all; someone had to dispose of the trash. With no Davids in this world, he thought, the Goliaths would rule unchecked.
Zeller pulled the sweatshirt hood up over Sparco’s baseball cap and gray hair, looking once again like an executioner or a Franciscan priest. He forced himself to walk slowly down the stairs, not wanting to attract attention or to appear a man in a hurry.
Image was everything. An act: one man playing another; one man living, one man dying. A murder turned into suicide.
And Walter Zeller-the Creator-nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 34
Ted Bragg was kneeling by the door to the second-story apartment at 21 Norwich Street. The suicide had been called in at four in the afternoon, and Dart alerted shortly thereafter.
Bragg informed the detective, “A woman in the apartment downstairs smelled him. I’m guessing he’s two days old.”
“Who’s primary?”
“I am,” answered Greg Thompson from behind. “Just interviewed the neighbor. Didn’t see or hear a thing. Just smelled the Jordon is all. Shit like this guy, stinks bad,” he added.
Looking around the room, Bragg said to Thompson, “What we’re going to see, what we’re going to find, is a suicide-a drug overdose. What we’re looking at,” he corrected, “is a homicide.”
Thompson appeared bothered. “Says who?”
“Says the evidence,” Bragg answered. “I think I can show you, but it’s going to require several hours, and everyone coming and going wears shoe covers, hair nets, and gloves.”
“It’ll never happen,” Thompson said.
“That’s the way it’s going to be,” Bragg insisted.
Dart pulled out the piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it. Greenwood’s name was a third of the way down Ginny’s list of men whose medical insurance had been paid for by Roxin. He had written the letters NP alongside Greenwood’s name-No Phone.
For Dart, the room felt dark and cold, the burden of this man’s death weighing on him. For the past two days he had been using this list to try to anticipate Zeller’s next kill. He had interviewed or spoken to six of the list of twenty-four. Dennis Greenwood had no phone, and Dart, not liking the neighborhood, had not traveled out here-not during the night shift. Now Greenwood was dead-though exactly how Zeller might have accomplished this still mystified him.
“The guy had a sheet,” Thompson said to Dart.
“Sex crimes,” Dart said back, glancing over at the dead man’s gray face with its swollen eyes.
Greg Thompson’s jaw dropped. “Now just how in the hell did you know that?”
CHAPTER 35
Dart needed the support of the department if he was to convince Dr. Martinson to suspend her clinical trial, turn over all the names, and then for either Proctor or HPD to provide protection for these men until Zeller was apprehended. Greenwood’s murder confirmed for Dart that this was the only course of action.
Worse, he now needed to break the news of Zeller’s involvement to Haite, convincingly, and yet carefully, without mentioning Zeller’s name, never putting Haite in the position of being required to report Zeller to Internal Affairs and thereby losing control. Until Zeller’s actual arrest, it would be better if he were thought of as Wallace Sparco. That would keep both Internal Affairs and the upper brass out of the investigation. If the pursuit took on task force proportions, Zeller would never be caught. He was far too savvy.
Dart waited outside Christ Church Cathedral, not properly dressed for the cold weather, shifting back and forth on painful feet, nervous, cold, and tense. One of the first Gothic Revival churches built in the New World, the cathedral, with its tall spire shaped of brown stone, was said to have been created to bring the congregation to “heavenly thoughts.” Dart’s thoughts were on a baser level, though he looked skyward and asked for some help.
John Haite winced as he spotted Dart from afar. A man who liked to leave the office at Jennings Road and not bring it home with him, Haite motioned his wife and son inside the church. Coming over to Dart with a determined look, he said, “What’s the meaning of this?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“My son is in his first Thanksgiving pageant. I’m not on duty tonight. I traded with-”
“I know,” Dart interrupted, “but it has to be you. And it can’t wait until tomorrow’s shift. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”
“This is bullshit,” Haite said. “Impossible.”
“There’s been another suicide,” Dart informed him. “Another homicide,” he corrected. “Tomorrow’s Friday; we’re the night shift; that leaves the entire weekend; it’s never going to be the right time.”
Haite glanced around. He waved to a few of the other parents just arriving with their preschoolers. He seemed embarrassed. He whispered angrily, “Nice fucking timing.”
Vespers had just concluded in the chapel, and Dart spotted a priest at a side door. He approached the man, showed him his shield, and asked for a room in private for a few minutes. The priest quickly agreed. Dart waved Haite toward the door, and the sergeant approached reluctantly, apologizing and gesticulating deferentially to the priest, who showed them into a small choir room with rich, dark wood paneling and a lush red carpet. Dart found it interesting to see Haite’s more humble side; he was a more religious man than Dart would have guessed.
Haite was clearly uncomfortable here. A large dark table occupied the center, surrounded by four straight-back chairs. In the main hall, a pianist and guitarist could be heard practicing the program’s children’s songs, including “Old MacDonald’s Farm.” The setting felt surreal.
Dart placed an impatient Haite in one of the chairs and then leaned a shoulder against the paneling, alongside some choir robes on hangers. “We have a difficult situation,” he began.
“We have a psycho who’s killing sex offenders, is what we have,” Haite interjected.
“If it were only so simple,” Dart said, winning the man’s surprise and full attention.
“Go on.”
“I have to be careful how I put this.”
“You have seven minutes,” he said, checking his watch. “Otherwise, we do this little dance tomorrow night.”
“I have a list of names…. You don’t want to know how I came by i
t. Stapleton, Lawrence, Payne, and tonight’s victim, Greenwood, are all on this list. So are twenty others. I have reason to believe that a similar if not identical list is in the possession of a drug research company located out in Avon. All men. All test subjects for some kind of hormonal therapy-genetic therapy-that I believe is aimed at changing or eliminating their violent behavior toward women. Kind of a Prozac for sex offenders.”
Haite looked as if someone had slapped him across the face, except that both cheeks were bright red. He mumbled, “You need some time off.”
Dart continued, “It is also my belief-some of which I can prove-that a lone individual is staging murders to look like suicides to keep this drug company from bringing the product to market. To see that the drug fails in the clinical trials. To keep sex offenders behind bars, not wandering the streets under treatment.”
“I can support that attitude,” Haite said bluntly.
“They’re all homicides, Sergeant: Lawrence. Stapleton. Payne. Staged brilliantly. Teddy Bragg can prove it-or at least make a strong case. The technique is ingenious, the methodology impeccable.”
“Why suicide? Why not just kill the bastards?”
“To invalidate the clinical trials. To keep us off the investigation. To kill as many as possible before anyone catches on.”
Haite nodded. “Okay,” he said, “let’s say you’re right.”
“The individual in question is known to us as Wallace Sparco.”
Chain of Evidence Page 24